New York, New York
by Missy Mouse
Summary: Based on the movie Yup, this story is so good I named it twice...sigh. Ichabod and Katrina and Masbath start their new life in New York, but as the body count rises, Ichabod starts to wish he'd stayed in Sleepy Hollow...
1. First Blood

Ok, this is my first Sleepy Hollow fic, so wish me luck lol. All reviews are welcome, flames are funny and will be used to burn the wood to power my computer.

Enjoy!

* * *

It was dark. Completely. The kind of dark that poured into a place like treacle, and clung to the buildings, sticking in the alleyways like stagnant pools. It even clung to the air, making a thick fug of grime and dirt that obscured the stars, and lurked over the city like a malevolent cloud.

New York waited under the darkness, its noise quietening, if only slightly. Late night traders sold their wares up and down the streets, women in dresses that had more open space than actual material roamed the streets, and all manner of black-hearted villains crouched in the shadows, waiting.

A scrawny, dirty blonde-haired girl ambled down a side street. Her dress was of the revealing nature, and she swung a grimy handbag at her side, that looked as though it may once have been silk. Her scandalously revealed stockings were laddered and ripped, her blue shoes worn out and muddy.

Her face looked no better than the rest of her; a gaudy mix of red lipstick and pale powder. The eyes were topped in gold, but they were dull inside, with ill-concealed bags below.

A girl, in short, in a sorry state even for a prostitute.

The blade came out of nowhere. It was long, but unbelievably thin, like a rapier. It shot from an alleyway like a bullet, piercing her stomach and gliding through her as though she weren't there. With a spluttered gasp she plunged forward, her wrist cracking unpleasantly on the cobblestones. Once more, a thin dagger came racing out of the dark alley, this time skewering her neck, and lodging there, like Frankenstein's bolt. One more gurgle, blood seeping from her mouth to blend with her lipstick, and she was dead.

The only sound was that of the first dagger, the echo of it's landing fading into the night.

The first man to find the body was a tramp, strolling with his emaciated dog in the early hours of the morning. The police, who were far too busy with serious matters such as ordering new uniforms and inventing new torture machines, sent out someone expendable. No point wasting good officers, was there?

It was nearly ten o'clock by the time Ichabod arrived at the scene of the crime. He was rather disgruntled. Not only was he supposed to be on leave (the first week off he'd had in years he might add) but he was being set on a crime that could only end in his tattered reputation burning into oblivion.

And he had only just got back from Sleepy Hollow.

Katrina had begged him, very nearly on bended knee, not to go. She'd used words like 'to Hell with them' and 'what about 'the' arrangements?'. But gone he had. If anyone was going to solve anything it would be him, and you couldn't have people dying left right and centre in a civilised place like New York.

"Ah. They sent you, did they?"

It was a disdainful comment. A resigned one. Constable Harrow had never been one of Ichabod's supporters.

"Yes. They did."

Harrow looked away, muttering under his breath. He rubbed his frozen hands together, glad of Ichabod's arrival in one way;

"Well, I'll be off. See you next week."

"Next week?"

"It's my week off, this week."

Ichabod resisted the urge to say anything. Harrow was comprised of either pure muscle or pure fat; it was hard to tell under the uniform. Either way, any argument would end with Ichabod being crushed to death.

Harrow hopped into the carriage Ichabod had just left, and slammed the door behind him, glad to be away. Ichabod took a deep breath, and went to inspect the corpse.

A body, that had evidently never been pretty to begin with, despite constant efforts, lay in the road. Blood, dark red and clotted, congealed on the cobbles. In the cold grey mist of a New York morning, this and the bright red lipstick looked oddly out of place, while the clammy grey skin and remains of a pale blue dress blended in. The left hand lay at a distorted angle, the wrist broken by the fall. Ichabod gulped.

"These are the weapons."

Another constable, a n immensely tall, lanky individual, loped over, holding one of the knives on a piece of cloth.

"You must never move the weapons."

"You said not to move the body…"

"Well then doesn't it follow that nothing else should be moved either?"

"Look, you didn't say anything about any weapons…"

"Where was it?"

The man shrugged. He gestured with an arm that resembled two broom handles tied together with string.

"Over there somewhere, I suppose."

Ichabod sucked in his cheeks, shut his eyes and counted to ten. Eventually he managed a strained "Fine."


	2. Pots'n'Pans

Thanks for the reviews! Always appreciated!

(A/N: All potions/chemical reactions in this story are probably unrealistic. I mean there isn't going to be anything too ridiculous I hope, but most of it will be fictional.)

* * *

It was a blessing that only one of the knives had been moved; the second was still stuck fast in the victims' neck. The mouth hung open a little way, but it was enough to show the congealed pond of blood that pooled inside. The eyes were wide open, and glassy, staring out at the world like a broken doll.

Steeling himself, and hoping he wasn't going to faint, Ichabod knelt down beside the corpse. He set his briefcase down on his right, and opened it to reveal the rack of potions and strange inventions. He ran a finger across the neatly labelled bottles, till his finger reached one filled with white powder. He lifted it from the stand, and doing his best not to catch the dead woman's eerie gaze, sprinkled a small amount onto the rounded end of the knife.

The task done, he leant away gratefully, replacing the lid, and then the bottle. He reached a searching hand down into the case, and withdrew a battered but serviceable pocket watch. He watched it intently for ten seconds, then leant back once more to look at the knife.

Most of the powder had disappeared, but tiny amount were still visible, marking out obvious fingerprints on the metal. Taking a satisfied breath at a job well done, he closed his briefcase, stood up and turned to look at the anxious figure of Constable Drew, looming behind him. Drew unfolded his arms, which took a lot of unfolding, and peered down at the body.

"What are those white marks? There on the handle."

"Those, Constable, are fingerprints."

Drew sneered.

"Do we assume the killer is a decorator then, who forgot to wash his hands?"

"That is not paint" Ichabod muttered testily "It is a special powder, that shows up any fingerprints left on an object."

"What good does that do us?"

"Fingerprints are unique to each person. If we know the fingerprint, we can identify the person."

"So, you're suggesting we look at everyone's fingerprints in New York?"

"Well, no. There must be certain suspects, people who regularly commit crime who might be expected to do so again. In fact.."

Ichabod pulled a pencil and notebook from his coat.

"I want you to go to the police station, and make a list of the names of criminals who are likely to have perpetrated this crime. Prime suspects. We then proceed with a process of elimination."

Drew could only stutter indignantly as Ichabod pushed the notebook and pencil into his numb hands.

"Good man. I'll see you next week."

"Next week?"

"Yes. It's my week off."

And with that, he turned on his heel, and hailed a passing cab. He watched Drew with gleeful satisfaction out the carriage window; the man was waving the notebook angrily, and chasing the coach up the street.

Eventually, after what seemed like an age, the coach pulled up outside a respectable looking town house. It was small, and squashed between equally small but respectable town houses. It was home.

Ichabod opened the front door onto a well lit but uninteresting hallway, the only feature being a spindly end table with a lamp on it. To the left of this was a rectangular sitting room. Beyond the hall was a kitchen that needlessly took up half the house, with the stairs and bathroom beyond that.

Ichabod flopped down into an armchair, watching the fire in the grate and wondering vaguely who'd lit it. He certainly hadn't this morning, and who else was there?

There came a loud _bang_ noise from the kitchen, followed by a crash, a clatter and finally after a long beat; "Fiddlesticks".

Ah yes, Ichabod remembered, that's who.

Upon their return to Sleepy Hollow, Ichabod Katrina and young Masbath (now the only one) had settled into New York. Katrina, loaded down with her inheritance, and more dresses than a tailors, had taken up residence in a hotel. Ichabod, with only a suitcase, two boxes and his various inventions had returned home. Masbath who had arrived with nothing but a duffle bag and that not full, had moved into the second bedroom in Ichabod's house, and was rarely seen with his head out of a book.

Except for the moment when Ichabod returned home, judging by the sounds emanating from the kitchen. Slowly, wondering what on earth he might discover, Ichabod opened the kitchen door, and beheld the interior.

There wasn't much to see except airborne flour. Then the fog of war cleared, and the constable had no trouble at all identifying victim, weapon and suspect.

All three were the same person.

Masbath was covered in flour, as was everything else in his vicinity. He appeared to have been grievously injured in every way that didn't draw blood; he was bruised, tired looking and utterly miserable.

As for the weapon, the most dangerous thing in the kitchen could only be the boy himself. He could wreak more havoc than any knife or meat cleaver.

The suspect needed no explanation. He turned toward the door, looking like a kicked puppy hoping for a lenient sentence.

"What did you do?"

"I dropped the flour sack."

"What else did you do?"

"I left the cupboard door open and walked into it by mistake."

"Anything else?"

"I burned myself lighting the fire in the sitting room. Then I dropped the match on the rug, which burnt. So I brought it in here to wash the ash off only it all got soaked in the sink, so I hung it on the airer to drip dry, only the airer collapsed. So I went to put it up again but I slipped in the puddle of water and fell over."

Ichabod waited with baited breath in case anything else was forth coming. When it was clear it wasn't, he swallowed and looked round the kitchen once more, taking it all in. He took a few careful steps inside, and drew a long breath in.

This was his first mistake as he simply inhaled a lungful of flour. When he had stopped coughing, he looked up once more at the pathetic, flour dusted boy in front of him.

"Well, I have got the whole week off, so we might be able to get this lot cleared up…"

Masbath grinned, causing a landslide of flour to tumble from his cheek to the floor. Ichabod managed a weak smile back. So much for a holiday.


	3. A Woman's Touch

Whoo 2 whole new chapters. Apologies for all 'happy families' stuff. I promise it will get less syrupy soon. Honest.

* * *

A light rain was falling as a carriage pulled up outside the Crane residence. The driver, a dapper fellow in the uniform of some high and mighty establishment, stepped down from the reigns, and opened the door.

Onto the step came one dainty foot, then another, both in white silk, heeled shoes. Then a cream hemline of a voluminous dress came tumbling out, and the figure stepped down into the street.

It was Katrina, complete with matching handbag and delicate parasol. She put up the parasol, reached into her bag to pay the coachman, then set off up the pavement, a small piece of paper clutched in her gloved hand. She checked whatever was written on it, and then hurried forward a few more steps. Eventually she came to a front door, banged the knocker, and then stood back.

It took a little while for anything to happen. She was just debating whether to knock again, or whether indeed Ichabod had written the wrong house number down, when the door opened.

She screamed, one hand going to her mouth, the other tightening its grip on the parasol, ready to strike out at the monster leaning out the door towards her. She had taken three steps back before the face took on a puzzled expression, and said:

"What is it, Miss Katrina?"

Katrina pointed wordlessly at his face. The boy went cross-eyed trying to see what was wrong. Katrina reached into her bag and produced a small hand mirror. She passed it over and Masbath looked.

"Ah."

"Yes. Quite. You aren't the latest assault victim are you?"

"Oh no. It's cranberry jam."

"Why are you covered in cranberry jam? And come to that, why are you covered in white powder? Are you intending to scare Ichabod witless when he comes home, by leaping out of a cupboard?"

"No! I was tidying the kitchen."

"Tidying? Well never mind. Get inside before anyone sees you! You look like a corpse!"

Now over the initial shock, she found the whole thing rather funny, and had to suppress a giggle as Masbath stepped back to let her into the hallway. She propped her parasol up by the door, and followed him through to the kitchen.

"Oh dear God!"

There had been a riot, surely. Some disgruntled police chief had taken an even stronger dislike to Ichabod than normal, and had sent a gang round to vandalise the house. That could be the only explanation. Katrina stared, aghast.

Masbath, who was viewing the kitchen, mindful of its previous appearance, had to say that what hadn't been done then, had certainly been done now. He wasn't sure how it had happened really, but one thing had led to another, and now the tiles were plastered with cranberry jam and the remains of a jar. The flour had intensified, and worst of all, and this was a new one even on Masbath, Ichabod was sprawled on the floor, unconscious.

"Ichabod! Oh God Masbath what happened?"

"I don't know. He was fine a minute ago."

Katrina ran over to him, kneeling down by his head to pat his cheeks gently. Masbath looked around the room, trying to think what had caused the constable to faint. Then he saw it. Halfway up the table leg was an enormous spider. Its legs were long and spindly, and it moved in a shuffling creep. Masbath stepped gingerly across the floor to it, caught it by a leg, and threw it out of the window.

On the floor, Ichabod was slowly coming round. Katrina sat back to give him space, and his eyes fluttered open. He turned his head to look at her.

"Katrina?"

"Good afternoon, Constable. Did the crime scene upset you?"

Her voice was kindly, and her smile gentle. Ichabod sat up and groaned.

"I thought you were tidying up, but it appears you have done more harm than good."

"Yes, I fear you may be right…"

Katrina stood up, and dusted flour from her skirts. Ichabod joined her, not bothering to brush his clothes, as no amount of brushing would remove the jam.

"Well, I think the best course of action is for you to have a bath. Masbath and I will clean up here."

Masbath stared at her in bewilderment. Katrina shooed Ichabod from the kitchen, and then turned back to the mess.

"Well, lets get started."

Ichabod stumbled down the stairs a half hour later, in clean clothes and free of any foodstuffs. Opening to door to the kitchen, he dreaded seeing Katrina and her beautiful dress in ruins.

The room now sparkled. Everything that could gleam did so with zeal, and even some things that didn't usually now had a shine. In the middle of the room stood Masbath and Katrina, the boy now notably cleaner, and the woman smiling serenely as if she'd taken up waiting for a career.

"But how…?"

He looked to Masbath, who shrugged. Katrina just smiled.

"I have always wanted to be the lady of the house."


	4. Too Much Knowledge Will Kill You

Okay, time to move away from the happy families. Finally.

* * *

Late in the evening, long after Katrina had left for her hotel and Masbath had fallen asleep in an armchair, a knock came at the door. Shutting his book with a snap, Ichabod went to answer it. Constable Drew stood, shivering in the cold.

"Yes, Drew?"

"I've got a list of suspects. I think most of them have been pulled in by now, except Scaver, who was killed."

Ichabod tutted under his breath.

"Well, then I shall take their fingerprints tomorrow."

"Just so."

Drew stalked off, and Ichabod closed the door. A busy day tomorrow, it seemed.

The miscreants were assembled in a line in the small room. There was only just room for Ichabod, Drew and a desk. On the desk sat a pot of ink, blotting paper, and then another sheet of paper on which boxes had been drawn. Under each box, a criminals name had been written.

Turning to the assembled wrongdoers, Ichabod took a deep breath.

"Gentleman, I will call your names in alphabetical order, and you will step up to the desk. Then, dip each finger into the inkwell, blot off the excess on this paper, and then press your fingers firmly into the correct box. Constable Drew will be making sure this is done correctly."

Drew nodded, sourly.

"Let's begin. Arnold!"

And so it did indeed begin. By the end of the line, twenty sets of fingerprints had been collected. Well pleased with this method, and feeling more than a little smug, Ichabod carried the paper to the evidence room.

It was a particularly tiny room. Only Ichabod used it. He opened a cupboard to find the knife, still bloodied, and more importantly still with the white powder denoting the fingerprints.

Carefully, he lifted the weapon by the blade, and laid it on the only table. It would be tricky to match up the fingers, but not, he hoped, impossible.

A full three hours later, Ichabod emerged victorious. Goggles still in place, he darted down the corridors, flinging wide the door to where Constable Drew sat guarding the prisoners.

"It was you!"

He pointed an accusatory finger at a dishevelled, short man cowering by the corner. He seemed to know the game was up long before anyone else knew it had started. The other criminals turned to look at him, unused to this new system of justice.

"Drew, lock him up."

"It's constable Drew, to you, Crane. Why can't we just kill him?"

"Because in order to ascertain the motive, we must question the killer. This cannot be done once the killer is dead."

Drew rolled his eyes. He motioned for three of the grunts to lead the shackled men away, after releasing Coldon, the accused.

"Have them all hung."

"Constable! These men may be innocent! We have not tried them or…"

Drew sniffed, and eyed Ichabod with disgust.

"You seem to have left your glasses on, Crane."

With that he left, watching in uncompassionate silence, as the men were lead away to death row.

Mr Forsham watched as the young lads ran and scampered from the classroom. Scallywags all, but nonetheless eager to learn. Sighing, he turned back to his blackboard and began to rub away the lessons of the day.

He was a somewhat reclusive fellow, his only true interests reading, and the teaching of his knowledge to others. He favoured history above all else, and believed there was much to learn from those times gone by. He saw little or no merit in science, instead seeing magic and legend as by far the more useful. Still, he had a varied wisdom, and knew enough to teach the youngsters who gathered in his schoolroom each morning.

Setting down his cloth, he turned to back his case for the journey home. A sudden draught from the window behind fluttered the pages of an open textbook on his desk, and he hurried to close it. As he reached up to pull down the frame, a solid object thumped into his stomach with considerable force.

The teacher flew back across the room, landing heavily on the unforgiving floorboards. Through blurred vision he saw a thin figure in a long, dark blue dress clamber in through the window. It walked quickly to the bookshelf, and lifted the largest, leather bound tome there. Then, with a deliberate slowness, it walked steadily across to him.

Forsham struggled into a sitting position, hauling himself up by gripping the desk leg. The figure stood over him, motionless.

"Madam, what is the meaning of this intrusion…"

The book crashed down, once, twice onto his head, beating him back to the floor. Blood pooled under the skin, bruising almost immediately. The woman brought the book down once more, hard on the teacher's skull. There was a sickly cracking noise, and blood poured in rivulets down his face. Bone poked through the broken skin, splintered and misshapen. The figure stood back, and laid the book carefully upon the desk. She made as if to turn away, then suddenly reached out for the open textbook, still fluttering in the breeze. Holding the book in outstretched hands, the woman stood for a few moments, then silently let the book fall square onto the man's face.

The noise of splintering bone sounded sharply in the empty classroom. The woman picked up the tome, and set it carefully down on one of the children's desks, so the bloodied cover faced upward. Bending down, she lifted a quill from the desk, and left a delicate inscription on the first page:

'_To Constable Crane,_

_Best wishes _

_?"_


	5. The Line Up

A/N: I'd just like to say that I don't know if dog pits existed in the New York constabulary at this time, but it would be jolly fun if they did. So here they are.

* * *

"So, did you kill…" 

Ichabod looked down at the piece of paper in his hand.

"…Betty Rogers?"

"No, I swear it! I ain't killed anyone! Dun't even know who she is!"

"Nonetheless, it was your fingerprints that were found on the handle of the knife. You were the last person to touch it, and so I say, you killed her!"

The man shook with grief, and possibly remorse but Ichabod couldn't tell. He was a short, grimy individual, who looked like a murderer without even trying. He had a long, tangly beard, which looked to be the home of at least one colony of rats. His hair was fuzzy, save for a gleaming bald spot on the top of his head. Of the teeth still left in his head, those that remained were broken and yellowed. And above all, he stank.

The smell was akin to that of a corpse. Ichabod lifted a handkerchief from his pocket, clamping it across his mouth. The prisoner shifted uneasily in his chair. The questioning was getting nowhere. What he needed, was witnesses, alibis. Where had the suspect been when the murder was committed?

"Any alibi's, Mr Coldon?"

Coldon stared at him.

"I dunno, sir. What are they?"

Ichabod took a deep breath, nearly inhaling his handkerchief. He moved it away from his mouth, and turned away from the stench to ask his next question.

"Anyone who can vouch for you. Say you weren't at the scene of the crime, when it was committed?"

Coldon brightened.

"Oh yeah, sir! Me wife, kids. And some constable. He'd come round to nick my eldest for filchin' apples."

"Which Constable?"

A blank look came upon Coldon's face.

A few hours later, a similar line of men was assembled in the room. However, these were uniformed, supposedly respectable men. They were the police.

Ichabod stood at one end of the line, hands behind his back, beginning to feel sick from the smell of Coldon. The stink followed the little man as he wandered down the line, thinking over each face in front of him. The policeman shifted uncomfortably, unused to being peered at by such a person.

"Is he here, Mr Coldon?"

Coldon stroked his chin, which produced a noise like sandpaper rubbing against tree-bark. Then, with a sudden look of recognition, he pointed.

"Him! Tha' one, with the moustache!"

The man with the moustache looked around exasperated. The moustache crouched on his upper lip like a small mammal nesting. His eyebrows were also thick and bushy, so much so they curtained his eyes. He directed a huffy look at Ichabod.

"Yes. I do remember this swine. What of it?"

"Did you see him on the night of the aforementioned crime?"

"Certainly. I was there at his hovel all night, practically. His son had been caught stealing. There were a few," he coughed "other matters too."

There was a gruff chortle from the other men assembled. One of them jeered;

"Coldon's missus runs the whorehouse. Old Belham here is a regular!"

Belham shot the man a death stare. Ichabod raised his eyebrows. Coldon sniffed loudly and bit at his nails reflectively. There was a silence that lasted too long. Eventually, Ichabod swallowed, clapped his hands together once and broke the tension.

"Well, in that case, Coldon cannot be the murderer!"

Coldon smiled and nodded.

"Well who is?" Belham folded his arms, still red faced, but eager to embarrass someone else.

"That remains to be seen. The question now is, why were Coldon's fingerprints on the knife."

Coldon's face sagged. He stared pointedly at the floor. Every official eye turned to him.

"I was made to do it."

Ichabod leaned forward to hear the muted sentence.

"Pardon?"

Coldon stared at him, wild-eyed.

"I was made to do it!"

"By who?"

The man stared at him.

"_HER!_"

"Her?"

Coldon shook, seemingly terrified. Ichabod leaned back. The killer was a woman? Well, it was possible, if Lady Van Tassel had been any example. _No mask so dangerous as that of virtue._ His own words. But why?

"Mr Coldon, I need a description…"

"Never! She'll 'ave me killed! I never saw her face, anyhow! Let me be, sir, I don't know nothing that I'd tell ya!"

"Mr Coldon, it is imperative that you tell me all you know! Otherwise, how can the killer be apprehended?"

"I ain't no proper constable, sir!"

"Neither is he." Quipped Belham. A raucous cackle went up from the assembled policemen. Ichabod looked away toward the floor, straightening up in anger.

"Throw him to the dogs, Crane, and be done with it!"

"Yeah! He's no use. Women don't go about murdering."

Ichabod opened his mouth to complain when two of the heftier constables lifted Coldon by the armpits (not a job for the fainthearted) and marched him from the room. In a desperate attempt to earn his reprieve, Coldon shouted:

"A blue dress! A blue dress with a hood, sir, and long blue gloves!"

Ichabod raced after them, crying out desperately.

"Unhand him! He is crucial evidence!"

But it was no use. Drew, who had materialised from nowhere, grabbed Ichabod by the shoulder, and spun him round.

"Perhaps you should go back to your leave, Crane. I think your particular brand of, _logic_ is not really appreciated by the law of New York."

Ichabod shrugged off the restraining hand with distaste, and glared at the insolent look on Drew's face. The sounds of a man being thrown to the dogs echoed down the halls of the municipal building, as the unfortunate Coldon met his end.


	6. Observations

On the way home, Ichabod found himself to be overly paranoid. It seemed to him that many more women than usual were wearing blue dresses. He watched them as he walked past, hands in pockets of his long coat. Mostly they stared back, confused as to why a lowly Constable would dare look at them.

Upon returning to his house, he was startled to find smoke curling from the chimney. A thick, oily dread seeped into his consciousness. _Please, don't let Masbath have been cooking._ He opened to door, and the warm, luxurious smell of home cooking engulfed him.

Stepping further in, he found Masbath curled in an armchair reading a storybook. This in itself was suspicious, as Ichabod knew neither he nor Masbath owned such a book. It also looked brand new. As he entered the living room the boy looked up.

"Evening, sir."

"Evening, Masbath." He replied, absently. Ichabod continued through to the kitchen. Masbath smiled and settled back into his book.

The kitchen was full of smoke. The fire burned merrily in the hearth, with several pots bubbling cheerily over it. The large table was half covered with ingredients. Katrina stood by the fire, stirring a saucepan.

"Good evening, Ichabod." She spoke without looking up.

"How did you know it was me?"

This time she did look up. The smoke wreathed her smile and her cheeks flushed with the heat of the fire. She looked beautiful.

"Because Masbath was engrossed in his new book. And he always opens the doors quickly, usually with a bang. You open them cautiously. You are much quieter than he is."

This amount of observation startled him. He swallowed and nodded slightly. Katrina turned back to her cooking.

"What are you doing in the kitchen?"

She grinned into the flames.

"I'm cooking."

"Katrina that's a silly answer." His voice became more serious.

"Well, it was a silly question. You are the Constable, I would've thought it was easy to deduce I was cooking."

Ichabod blushed, and turned his face away. Katrina watched him, and set down her spoon. Smiling at his obvious embarrassment, she reached up to his face, and kissed him gently on the cheek. The colour in his cheeks only intensified, and she giggled, resting her head on his chest.

"You must stop blushing when I kiss you."

"Why? I can't help it."

"Because it makes me want to kiss you again."

She giggled once more, and looped her arms round his neck as he carefully put his arms about her waist.

"How was work?"

"Dreadful. My main suspect turned out to be a tool of the murderer. Then the other constables threw him into the pit."

Katrina lifted her head to look at him.

"Why did they do that?"

"Because they are ignorant. The justice system is a laughable collection of rules that don't work and don't get anyone anywhere, with the exception of lowly officers. As long as they throw enough men into torture or the pit, they get promoted faster than most of them can think."

Katrina, upset by Ichabod's black mood, kissed him lightly on the forehead, and guided him carefully into a chair. He slumped into it, staring dejectedly into the flames. Katrina skipped back across to the saucepan, giving it a final stir.

"Do not worry. I'm sure your logical mind will solve the crime."

Ichabod looked up at her, sceptical.

"I'm also sure the other constables don't do it out of cruelty. We cannot all be as great minded as you."

This didn't seem to convince him either. However, he brightened up as she lifted the steaming pot to the table.

"I reserve judgement on my ability to solve crimes. I will say, though, that neither mo or Masbath can cook as well you."

Katrina smiled again, and looked around the kitchen, remembering her previous visit.

"Yes, I must say you're right. Even if I do say it myself."


	7. The Woman in Blue

Yes, this is a new chapter. No, you haven't had one to many and started seeing things. Plus, I've sorted out my plot. But sadly the exams loom nearer, so updates will be sporadic at best. So, no change really.

Missy

* * *

Lord Baxter-Lloyd looked around the room. Candles flickered on every available surface, shining on the sequined curtains and richly woven rugs. Chalked on the floor, surrounded in a circle by several mats, was a circle. In it sat the dreaded sign, the pentagram, and a large, black wax candle on each point. The melted black wax pooled about the candles on the floor, seeping into the cracks and binding itself with the wood. 

A short, skinny man, in a long, strikingly coloured robe stood beside the pentagram, a leather-bound tome in his long spindly fingers. Despite his weak appearance, his steady hold on the book betrayed the strength he had. His face was at the moment hidden under the red, velvet hood that matched his robe, but Lloyd had seen it once before.

It was a not a face to be forgotten easily.

Small, dark squinty eyes, made short-sighted through too many nights spent peering at books by candlelight. Raven dark hair was sparse atop the domed head, but a thin, precise moustache and beard covered his upper lip and chin. His nose was long and sharp, the overall effect being of an inquisitive, pernickety middle aged man. If seen in the street, many would have seen his chemical stained fingers and singed eyebrows and marked him as a scientist. In a way he was, but not in the conventional areas that science typically explored.

He believed, not in science per se, but in magic.

His methods though, were a mixture of the two. He wanted to capture raw magic, store it, use it somehow. His projects were usually small, and ill funded. But not this time.

The bulgingly rich Lord who stood coughing at intervals behind him was the money provider. He was financing a scheme, which, unbeknownst to him, had a double application.

The officials of New York were offering a prize, to anyone who could figure out a way to operate the gas street lamps, without employing the many people to light them. James Carter believed magic could do it, and he now had his rich supporters, eager to indulge their pale dabbling in what they thought of as the occult. He strongly assumed that Lord Baxter-Lloyd had never even seen a pentagram.

Which was in many ways, a good thing. The lantern-lighting would no doubt bring in fame and fortune, but the offshoot project he was simultaneously conducting would be the one he wanted to be remembered for. It was not as 'helpful'. Except to those who would particularly want to use it.

It had very little to do with lamps, either. Which was why he was glad Lord Baxter-Lloyd's only experience of magic was watching cheap magicians in the street.

"I say, do you want me to help, Mr Carter?"

"No, no. I would not wish you to dirty your clothes, my lord."

Carter watched the candles intently. He began to read the gibberish from the book. Slowly, he raised one hand. Baxter-Lloyd peered closer at the pentagram, imagining what the mystic words could possibly mean.

Carter, hand poised, stared carefully at the candles. He waited. Then…

_Click_ went his fingers.

The candles fizzed and sparked. The Lord leapt about a foot and crossed himself. Carter shut the book with a snap.

"Good. We are progressing."

The Lord nodded.

The door to the room opened silently, and a figure slid in, like a snake through greased grass. Carter fixed Lord Baxter-Lloyd with a steady gaze.

"Goodbye, my Lord."

"Oh, er yes. Good, good. Good day."

The bulbous man stumbled out, completely failing to notice the lithe figure that waited in the shadows. Carter turned, and replaced his fake book on the table. Licking his grimy fingers, he put out each of the candles. The second figure did not move.

"Well, woman?"

The second figure stepped forward. Carter lit a new, white candle, and as it flared, the long blue dress of his companion became visible. He smiled.

"What news is there, then?"

The woman stood silent. She folded her hands demurely in front of her, long blue gloves creasing slightly at her wrists.

"Come, come. You only see me when you have news."

The woman, and that was all Carter knew her as, seldom spoke. But when she did, her voice was smooth, and soft. But strong. Like lead in a velvet wrap.

"Knowledge has been removed."

Carter's face become more serious.

"That is good. May I ask how?"

The woman considered this.

"Your whore was easy. But we knew that already." Carter glowered at her.

"I threw a knife through her neck. After I threw one through her stomach. I bribed a man to put his fingers on the handle."

Carter, who was pouring himself a drink, looked at her quizzically.

"You wear gloves."

"But my supplier does not." Carter smiled. "And he makes good knives." The woman continued.

"The teacher. That was too easy. But I find fun in simple tasks occasionally. Too much knowledge is not good. One must not be greedy."

"Quite so. He was far too interested in my work, but far too poor to be helpful. It was unnecessary, perhaps. But like you, I am very careful."

The woman nodded. Carter paused, and took a sip of his wine. He looked worried.

"I understand there are many murders in this city."

The woman executed a small snort.

"They are not murders. They are a botched mess of wounding. Murder should be graceful. There is only beauty in death, if you are beautifully murdered."

Carter felt a slight chill down his spine. She was useful, undeniably. About as friendly as a bottle of arsenic with the similar after effects of getting too close. But useful.

Also highly unsettling. And Carter was not an easy man to unsettle.

"Quite. You are a master of your art. But perhaps you are too good. There may be, unnecessary interest in these murders…" Carter let it linger.

The woman was silent.

"I would like little attention to be drawn."

"Of course."

Carter, feeling as though he was getting no answer, faced her directly.

"Tell me. Is anyone on to us?"

The woman lifted her head just enough to allow light under the deep hood to illuminate bright red lips.

"No."


End file.
